


Garashir, once removed

by bongbingbong



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24247330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bongbingbong/pseuds/bongbingbong
Summary: Elim Garak and Julian Bashir are clearly head over heels for each other, but sometimes cultural misunderstandings happen. Seen through the eyes of some of the Deep Space Nine regulars (who are all shameless self inserts of my friends and I)
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 24
Kudos: 49
Collections: Deep Space Discord Literary Universe





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know this doesn’t work within the canon timeline because the school would have been closed by the time Julian read Enigma tales but also have you considered: I don’t care
> 
> This came out of many ridiculous DS9 conversations between myself and the people who are represented by all of the OCs in this fanfiction (barring the schoolchildren)
> 
> Also this is the same Savannah as excessiveprepositionalphrases' Lieutenant, who is good friends with Julian in our shared-brain-cell literary universe

“What do you mean we need a cable for the classroom viewscreen? What century is it?”

Robertson drew a deep sigh. They’d heard this one from every tech in the station at this point, and they prayed none of the frustration would creep into their voice as they explained it to Savannah. 

“I think the setup was cobbled together from whatever bits and pieces were left over… from somewhere… at some point. We don’t know, but nobody’s ever had the time to come in and fix it, given the more - ah - pressing matters usually going on on the station.”

“They mean nobody really cares about whether the school opens or closes!” piped up a tiny voice from under the nearest desk. Savannah peered under it in confusion, then waved at the small Bajoran girl who was sat under there, holding a PADD.

“They can sit where they want when it’s silent reading time,” said Robertson, by way of explanation, “and Hokya, would the Lieutenant and I be here if _nobody_ cared?”

They bent down to wiggle their eyebrows at little Hokya, who laughed.

“I guess not?”

“Plus,” said Savannah, “I actually think I can do something about this. If you just - hold on-” 

She blew on the end of the cable and jammed it firmly into the antiquated PADD sitting on Robertson’s desk. The viewscreen flickered once, twice, and then the slightly wobbly words “Twelfth Night” appeared.

“Oh my god, you’re a lifesaver!” said Robertson, clicking through the presentation to make sure it still worked (it did, despite a second-long lag in between the clicking and the reacting)

“It’s a pleasure! Anyway I was saying, we can probably update this, it’s not like we don’t have the resources for it. I'll make time!”

Robertson’s thank-you was cut off by a ping on Savannah’s comm badge summoning her to the infirmary.

“Sounds like Doctor Bashir’s forgotten his passwords again,” said Robertson as Savannah swept her tools off the table and into her bag with one hand.

“Wouldn’t bet against it,” said Savannah with a laugh, and with that, she was out the door.

“Alrighty guys, back to your seats! Let’s talk about some Shakespeare.”

*

The desks had been pushed into two concentric circles, with an inner circle of the five older students, and an outer circle of nine younger students, taking notes. The older students - Jake, Nog, two Bajoran girls named Tallis and Yelsi, and a Tellarite boy named Gann - were in the midst of a heated discussion while Robertson sat cross-legged on their desk and watched.

“What I don’t get,” said Tallis, “is why Feste is such a-” her eyes flickered over to Robertson, whose smile had suddenly become slightly dangerous, “such a - uh - mean guy,” she finished lamely.

“I don’t think he’s being mean at all,” replied Jake, “I don’t think that’s the point, I mean he’s the fool right? He’s meant to be there to make people laugh.”

“Olivia’s father just died! And her brother! Why would you make a joke about them burning in hell, that’s just insensitive.” Tallis crossed her arms and glared as she said this, daring Jake to disagree.

“Why would you write a comedy where there’s a character who’s paid to make people laugh?” said Yelsi, “that seems redundant - isn’t everybody supposed to be funny anyway?”

“Maybe Nog should start charging people for his pranks,” said Gann with a smirk. Nog seemed to consider this seriously.

“Well I mean, if they’re a source of entertainment to you, that’s actually not a bad idea,” he began, but was cut off by the sound of Robertson clearing their throat.

“To get you guys back on track,” they said, though the warmth in their voice suggested they weren’t actually angry, “I think you need to think a bit more about the context of their relationship. How long has Feste been in the family for?”

“He was Olivia’s dad’s fool,” replied Jake, “so a long time.” 

Robertson nodded, giving them time to process the thought for a bit.

“So,” continued Jake, watching the teacher carefully for confirmation, “he probably watched Olivia grow up. So there’s no way he’d want to just be mean to her, right?”

“Right. Plus, what’s his conclusion at the end of the conversation?” said Robertson. 

“That she’s a fool!” exclaimed Nog

“Well, you’re not wrong there,” said Robertson, “that was my bad - backtrack a few lines from that bit.” 

There was a slight pause as the older students scrolled through their scripts.

“Oh. He’s helping her realise that if their souls are in heaven, they’re in a good place. He changes her perspective,” said Jake.

“That’s not even funny though!” said Yelsi

“No, you’re right,” said Robertson, “but it is kinda sweet. You can tell Feste has genuine affection for Olivia, in his own special way.”

*

Lunchtime in the replimat had turned into something of a reality show for several of the inhabitants of Deep Space Nine. Savannah and her assistant Susan - a Trill friend who also had a penchant for art - had had a standing lunch date for some time now, but when Robertson had joined them a few weeks ago, the three of them had noticed something very interesting. The Cardassian tailor Garak, and the station’s doctor Julian Bashir had taken to having increasingly heated conversations (read: arguments) about literature at the same time. 

It wasn’t that they were eavesdropping. Frankly, the two men often spoke loudly enough that the entire replimat could follow the conversation if they so wished. The two of them were so animated in their own ways, it was basically free entertainment as far as they were concerned. 

Today though, there was clearly something wrong. Bashir was subdued as he poked at his lunch, twisting noodles around his fork as Garak complained about Julian’s reaction during the previous week to something called “Enigma tales.” The way he spoke, however, with a slightly heightened inflection to his voice, a slightly-too-animated raising of his eye ridges, a slightly too close lean over the table, suggested that this was more for the benefit of his unusually quiet companion.

“Really doctor, you must tell me what’s gotten into you,” said Garak, “I’ve provided you with ample wisdom to chew on, and yet it seems like you can’t manage to take in any of it.”

“Oh, it’s nothing Garak. I’m just tired.”

“I’ve never seen you so tired that you haven’t been able to bolt down your food like you’re afraid it will disappear. Tell me.”

Doctor Bashir sighed, letting the noodles fall off his fork with a sad little _plop_.

“It’s not really something I should be that worked up about. You’ll laugh at me.”

Garak placed his hand on his chest, eyes wide with mock indignation.

“I would never presume to laugh at something that genuinely upset you, my dear doctor.”

That got a small smile out of Bashir, whose eyelashes fluttered momentarily as he finally met Garak’s eyes.

“Fine,” he said, “you know those Klingons who arrived the other day? There’s a group of three of them, they started a fight in Quark’s last night.”

“You seem very sure that they were the ones who started it, but do go on doctor, I know the ones.”

“Yes, well… they came to me this morning to get patched up. But they wouldn’t leave me alone about it! They kept making all these comments - about how skinny I was, about how soft my hands were, how delicate I seemed, like a little…” his voice fizzled out, and he cleared his throat, his hands unconsciously clenching and unclenching on the table.

“So, they acted like Klingons,” said Garak gently, “you should know that’s how they usually-”

“That’s the problem!” said Bashir, far louder than he had likely intended. His eyes grew wide as he looked around, slightly self-conscious. Savannah, feigning nonchalance, took an enormous swig of her lemon tea and almost immediately choked as burning hot liquid filled her mouth. Luckily, Bashir was distracted.

“I just-” he continued, much more softly this time around, “I should have realised what they were doing. They’re Klingons, of course they’d say those things. They needed to know I was a worthy doctor, but instead of retaliating, I just… I can barely remember, I was so frazzled. I think I sort of managed to splutter out some sort of a retort, but I do know that they definitely didn’t stick around for me to fully treat everything.”

“Ah, I see,” said Garak, “you, a human, didn’t understand the signals that they, a group of extremely intimidating Klingons, were trying to give you.”

“Exactly. They were trying to see if they could trust me, and I let them down,” said Bashir, letting out a sigh and looking for all the world like a kicked puppy. It was good that he was staring down at his feet at that moment, so that he couldn’t see Garak look upwards in a moment of supplication.

“You’re right of course, doctor. They did clearly leave feeling as though they had been let down somehow.” Garak picked up an isolinear rod from his side of the table, and then placed it in front of Bashir. The doctor’s head snapped up again, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“I’m afraid I must return this undoubtedly delightful novel to you, doctor Bashir,” said Garak, his face suddenly devoid of all traces of humour.

“W-why? You haven’t had a chance to read it yet! It’s your turn, and after those Enigma Tales I thought Murder on the Orient Express-”

“Yes, yes,” said Garak, waving a dismissive hand, “I’m sure whatever it is is lovely, but don’t you think it’s time we admitted that this entire charade is a sham?”

Doctor Bashir’s eyes could not have opened up much wider. The poor man looked like he was about to cry.

“What do you mean?” he said, he voice suddenly very, very soft.

“What I mean is,” said Garak, a condescending smile playing across his face, “is that as a Cardassian, I have absolutely no hope of seeing things from the point of view of your Terran literary sensibilities. These conversations have been a futile effort, since the two of us clearly have no way of understanding each others’ points of view. That’s the way things should be.”

“B-but that’s ridiculous!” said Bashir, irritation creeping into his voice, “you can’t possibly think that we’ve just been here blindly stating our own cultural viewpoints! I mean the whole reason why these discussions are so wonderful is because we can meet halfway, we can try to understand!”

“I suppose you’re right,” said Garak, staring unblinkingly into Bashir’s eyes, “imagine being on a station with as many species as we have here and expecting everybody to just abide by your own specific cultural standards. Sounds barbaric.”

Robertson had to jam their face into their elbow to stop the laughter from exploding out of them. God, Garak was a dick. Savannah had buried her face in her hands and Susan was staring down at her plate, trying very, very hard not to giggle.

Bashir stared at Garak for several seconds while the wheels turned in his mind.

“Garak!” he shouted. He flung the rod back at his friend, who caught it with one hand, taking a sip of his drink with the other. Bashir jabbed a finger in Garak’s face, though he couldn’t hold back the smile of relief that spread across his face,

“Never do that to me again,” he said, “you scared me!”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” said Garak, “then I believe you were in need of a good scaring.”

Julian rolled his eyes dramatically and sank back in his chair with a huff. He then eyed his plate, and fell to shovelling a forkful of cold noodles into his mouth.

*

“And everything was right with the world again,” said Robertson.

“You might have to find some excuse to fix the computers in the infirmary later though,” said Susan

“What’s that?” Savannah looked confused

“Bashir looks like he could do with a hug, and since the shortest time frame anyone's willing to bet on them getting together is... Lieutenant Bond I think, at five months - Garak’s definitely not going to be the one to give it to him.”

“Oh! Right, noted. One hug, coming up!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Keiko and Jazdia smoke some of that dank ass space weed (accompanied by Garak) and Julian displays his classic case of foot-in-mouth (and not the sexy kind)

The last class of the day had been on Bajoran poetry. Robertson had mixed feelings about being the one to introduce some of the younger students to Gaudaal’s Lament given its significance to the Bajorans and their own relative lack of knowledge as a Terran. But Tallis and Yelsi had been more than happy to chime in with their perspectives. In fact, they had been extremely enthusiastic, staying behind after class to explain some of the finer points of the poem and share how they had first learned it by heart. By the time Robertson had waved them goodbye, tidied up, drawn up the plans for the Holosuite field trip they and Keiko were planning, and read through the creative journal entries from last week, it was already late in the afternoon. Dropping the plans off to Keiko and then staying for a cup of tea didn’t sound like a bad idea right now.

That particularly fantasy didn’t last long, however. On their way through to the crew quarters, they passed Miles O’Brien, holding Molly’s hand as she pattered along to keep up. Miles had a kind of sheepish look to him as he greeted them.

“Where are you two off to?” said Robertson, giving Molly her customary nose-boop as a greeting.

“We’re having dinner out tonight,” said Miles, “Keiko’s having a - ah - a ladies’ night. We’ll probably try out one of the kids' holosuite programs afterwards.”

“A busy night for Molly! Sounds like it’s gonna be fun!” said Robertson. Miles smiled fondly down at Molly, who grinned back.

“I certainly think so, if you manage to make it all the way through! Anyway, we’d best get going,” said Miles, waving at Robertson. Molly copied his action with a little “bye bye!” and the two of them were on their way.

A ladies’ night. There was only one thing that could be a euphemism for. 

Robertson was right. Upon ringing the door chime to Keiko’s quarters, they were greeted firstly with a slightly elongated “come in!” and then secondly with an extremely hazy room that smelled very strongly of whatever it was she, Jadzia Dax, and for some reason Garak were smoking. Robertson was unsurprised - Keiko and her Bajoran botanist friends were known for their ability to cultivate almost anything in their private quarters, plus they had more than enough contacts for some of the more interesting, hard-to-find cannabis-adjacent alien plants.

Jadzia was reclined across the length of the O’Briens’ lounge, with her head nestled comfortably on a cushion and her feet in Keiko’s lap. On the coffee table in front of them sat a plate of cookies and an extremely elaborate bong, made of clear, neon green tinged glass. There were a number of twisting glass threads that wove in and out of the main tube, giving it the appearance of being some sort of bizarre, wavy seaweed. Garak, on the other hand, seemed to prefer the simplicity of a joint, which he held lazily between two fingers as he scrolled through his PADD one-handed.

“Feel like joining us?” said Keiko, patting Jadzia’s leg, “there’s room on the couch for one more,”

“Thanks! But I think I’ll have to decline,” said Robertson with a smile, “I’m pretty tired, and I wouldn’t want to impose on your - ah - ladies’ night.”

Keiko burst out laughing, “you must’ve run into Miles.”

“Can’t say I’m much of a lady either,” said Jadzia, “and I don’t speak for Garak, but-”

“More ladylike than you’ll ever be,” murmured Garak, continuing to scroll. Jadzia chuckled. 

“Anyway, anyone who’s canny enough to figure out when Keiko’s tracked down some genuine Sha-Ka-Ree Funk deserves to come and sit for a bit. Even if you’re Garak, who seems to be taking the sitting part in the most literal sense possible.”

“If that happens to be a jab at my lack of social participation tonight, I should remind you that it was yourself and Keiko who insisted I stay, despite the fact that I told you I had some work to finish tonight,” said Garak. His eyes flickered upwards for a moment and locked onto Robertson. His gaze was steely - some sort of warning? But what?

“T-thanks,” said Robertson, feeling strangely warm at Jadzia’s invite, “but smoking and me don’t, er, go well together.”

“Aww, that sucks,” said Jadzia, “well, by all means at least take some cookies with you.”

“And don’t worry, they’re just cookies,” said Garak, eyes fixed once again on his PADD.

“Oh. Neat, thanks Garak. Jadzia. See you tomorrow Keiko!” 

“Right on,” said Keiko. She took a hit from the bong, and blew out several smoke rings.

Once outside, Robertson paused for a moment. Why had Garak looked at them like that? They went back through the conversation in their head. What was it that he’d said? That he had some work to finish tonight?

Oh.

He hadn’t been working at all - he was reading Murder on the Orient Express.

He hadn’t wanted Keiko and Jadzia to know about it. But more than that.

He knew that they knew.

*

The next day was lunch day. Usually a pretty fun day in the general social calendar, except for the fact that today, Robertson was now the bearer of some bad news. Their two usual friends were joined by another today, Irena - the half-Betazoid woman who worked in the Holosuites as a kind of companion, for when an extra sentient player was needed. She was an expert in emotional intelligence if the amount of people who used their Holodeck sessions to just vent about their lives was any indicator, and an expert in ear-pinching when Quark tried to bully her into participating in some of the sleazier programs.

Her eyes widened when Robertson sat down at their usual table.

“What’s wrong?” she said immediately

“Garak knows we’ve been listening in,” said Robertson, trying their best not to look suspicious but failing.

“What?” hissed Susan, “that’s - how could he know that? Cardassian hearing isn’t even that good, and he’s usually facing away-”

“Shh!” Robertson flapped their hands at them as Garak and Julian took their customary seats.

“No, if we’re all quiet he’ll notice!” said Savannah

“Ohhh, un-shh!! Quick, who’s got something to talk about?” said Robertson

“Well, I’m having another row with Telnorri again,” said Irena, “he keeps telling me to stop trying to ‘treat his patients,’ but the thing is, how am I supposed to stop people from coming into the holosuites to have a good cry or break something if that’s what they’d rather do? If know what I’d be choosing if that guy was my other option - oh!” her eyes strayed over to Garak and Bashir’s table again.

“That’s different,” she said softly

“What? Irena, don’t hold out on us, what is it?” said Savannah, leaning in as if she could somehow absorb some of Irena’s empathic powers.

“Well you know how they’ve just been feeling kind of all…” Irena made a vague gesture, “warm? And tingly? Well today-” she leaned in conspiratorially, “today, Garak’s feeling  _ nervous _ .”

“Doctor, have you ever considered the frankly concerning trend of Earth fiction to treat the government and its law enforcement as some sort of…” Garak twirled a finger in the air, searching for the right word

“What, you mean like how they never seem to be able to get the job done properly? That’s a human thing Garak, we like to poke fun at authority.”

“What a positively horrendous thing to reinforce through your literature,” said Garak, taken aback, “why, the policemen in this book are all but useless, they rely on someone who is effectively a citizen to do their work for them! How can anyone have any trust in a system that works like that?”

“But I mean, people on Earth find that inspiring, the power of the individual to make a difference. That’s why so much of our literature favours vigilantism too, it’s just the way we navigate-”

“Vigilantism? Now really doctor, that’s taking things too far - taking the law into your own hands? To what end?”

“You know what? Sometimes, because it’s just so much fun to read about, Garak.”

“That’s a dead-end of an answer if I ever heard one,” replied Garak, sounding slightly disappointed

“Well then,” said Julian, “why don’t we get a third opinion, from someone who actually knows what they’re talking about?”

“Uh oh,” said Irena

He got up abruptly and walked over to where the four friends were sitting.

“Oh my god,” whispered Susan

“Don’t say anything,” muttered Savannah

“Hello all! I do apologise for barging in on your lunch like this, but I’m looking for an expert in literature, and I was wondering if you might weigh in on a little disagreement my friend and I are having over some Terran literature, ah, Mx Robertson was it?”

“Just Robertson’s fine. What, uh, what book are you debating about?”

Robertson followed Julian back to the table where Garak sat, his face a blank mask of impassivity. Their eyes met again, only this time he didn’t look dangerous. There was a flash of something wild and fearful in those alien-blue eyes, like he’d been cornered. But then it was gone, and his face relaxed into a perfectly amiable smile.

“Murder on the Orient Express,” he said, “I was merely pointing out to the dear doctor that the very existence of private detectives such as Hercule Poirot suggests that there is some inherent deficiency in the justice system being reinforced through your literature.”

“Wow, okay. Don’t read any Sherlock Holmes then,” said Robertson, earning themself a half-hearted glare.

“Look,” they continued, running a hand through their hair, “I think the problem is that you have to realise Earth was governed by individual countries and states that have had absolutely nothing to do with each other up until relatively recently, compared to other planets. That’s… a lot of ways to do corruption, especially when trying to go up against every other little country on your planet. Frankly, the people who have been in charge of things on Earth haven’t been particularly good at their job, historically speaking. Anti establishmentarian views are just a reflection of that. I can’t say I know enough about Cardassia to draw any comparisons, but I imagine there’s a difference there somewhere.”

Garak seemed to be trying his best to look thoughtful.

“I suppose there’s something in there… that may be out of my personal understanding.”

“Come on Garak,” said Julian, “you mean to tell me you’ve  _ never _ been let down by someone who was meant to be in charge?” 

Garak’s face shuttered, going back to a carefully schooled neutral expression.

“I can’t say I have. Now I really must be getting back to my shop doctor. Robertson, a pleasure as always.”

Garak’s chair scraped a grating sound across the replimat floor as he hurried up and out of there as quickly as possible. Julian stood there watching him leave, stunned into confusion.

“There you are!” said a voice from behind them. Savannah to the rescue.

“Julian, I’ve been looking for you everywhere - I burned my tongue yesterday and it’s still all tingly and my tongue is kinda numb right here-” she stuck her tongue out and pointed at a random spot, “an’ I phink it’th phtill burnth!”

“O-oh. I uh… guess we better get that checked out then, hmm?” said Julian, only half paying attention. He allowed Savannah to take him by the elbow and steer him out of the replimat too.

“What was that all about?” said Susan, as Robertson plopped back into their chair and started on their now-cold lunch.

“I have no idea,” said Robertson, “but I feel like I just witnessed a break-up. All Julian did was ask my opinion on a Terran book, but Garak reacted like he’d slapped him.”

“He kind of did, in a way,” said Irena. Susan and Robertson turned and stared.

“What? I dated a Cardassian back in the day. They’re hot.  _ Anyway _ , Cardassians flirt by arguing with each other. How would you feel if you were on a date and mid-conversation your date brought some random - no offence meant - over to join in while you were trying to chat someone up?”

“Oh  _ no _ ,” groaned Robertson, leaning forward to rest their head on the table, “did I just break them up?”

“Nope,” replied Irena, patting their arm, “Julian managed to bumble his way into that all by himself. Poor boy’s clueless. Hopefully once Savannah’s sorted him out we can tell her how to apologise so she can tell him. Or maybe I’ll see him on the holodeck.”

“I have a better idea,” said Robertson, the plan forming in their mind as they flipped through the overheard conversations from the past two weeks, “because I think somebody needs a taste of his own medicine.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I made myself unnecessarily sad with the first part of this???
> 
> Also shoutout to the real life Irena, Susan, Savannah, Bond, and all the other Discord nerds who helped me out and played headcanon tennis <3

Robertson left the replimat feeling pretty confident, but as they made their way over to Garak’s shop, a tingling anxiety began to build in their chest. There was absolutely no guarantee that they’d even read any of the situation right to begin with. What if they’d just imagined the warning look from Garak? And that one moment of fear? On the other hand, Irena had said that Garak had been feeling “terribly hurt” when he’d all but fled from the replimat, so perhaps not.

They’d never had reason to visit the tailor’s shop before. Any sewing that needed to be done they did themself (despite the wonky job they usually made of it) - they didn’t make very much in the way of currency, and Garak’s shop was for people who could afford nice things.

A small chime sounded as they walked into the blessedly empty store. Garak was sat at the counter wearing some odd, square looking glasses and squinting angrily down at some sort of embroidery. Judging by the slightly vicious way he was stabbing the fabric, Robertson guessed that he was not in a good mood.

“You’ll have to excuse my lack of tact but I find myself entirely devoid of the strength to try for it, my dear. You can’t afford anything in here, and I don’t do charity,” grumbled Garak, “please leave.”

That was a lie - everybody knew he made clothes for the Cardassian orphans on Bajor. Robertson drew a deep breath.

“My students do that too, you know. When they want me to go away.”

“What, they tell you to go away? How novel.”

Following that conversational road would lead to a dead end very quickly.

“Well, how about instead of charity, we frame it as uh, me helping you out? Surely you’ve got some scraps and empty bolts you don’t need any more.”

Garak pushed those strange glasses higher up his nose, “I’m sure I don’t follow you.”

“The reason I’m here - I’m... looking for donations to the school. We want to do some diorama building, and well, I thought you might have some things I could take off your hands. You know, clean out your offcuts and the like.”

“Ah, let me introduce you to this extraordinary invention called the replicator!" Garak's tone was sickly sweet and condescending, "it’s where I recycle all of my ‘offcuts and the like’ and replicate anything I-”

“I know you’re upset Garak, but there’s no reason for you to be needlessly cruel about it,” snapped Robertson, “and besides, I don’t have the credits to replicate anything more for the school, or I wouldn’t eat.”

Something in the tightly coiled tension of Garak’s frame seemed to deflate a little at that.

“Well. If that's all I can do for you-”

“No, wait!” said Robertson, scrambling to get the conversation back on track - this was definitely not going well, “there’s more - I have, er, questions?”

“It seems like you do indeed. What are they?”

“I er - well that is, we’re on a Cardassian station and all,”

Garak pretended to look around him and feigned shock, and Robertson huffed out a laugh.

“It just seems remiss that I don’t know… much about Cardassians! For example, I know that you guys-”

“You  _ guys? _ ”

“You all. Y’all. Whatever - argue right? When you flirt? H-how can you tell the difference between whether your argument is intended in a romantic way and when it’s, you know, the real deal?”

“You know, I apologised for my lack of tact when you walked in just now, but it seems more like you should be the one apologising to me.”

“I can’t imagine what you mean Garak, I’m merely curious,” said Robertson, giving him their best attempt at an innocent smile.

“Well then let me satisfy your curiosity by saying that you already know the answer to that question, given that you’ve recently been a direct observer of both situations."

“Ah, I see,” said Robertson, “Doctor Bashir, a Terran, didn’t understand the signals that you, a Cardassian, were trying to give him.”

Garak stilled.

“Imagine being on a station with as many species as we have here and expecting everybody to just abide by your own specific cultural standards.”

Silence.

Garak made no move to reply, nor even to pretend he was interested in his embroidery anymore. If anything, the Cardassian just looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” said Robertson, suddenly feeling terribly guilty, “but somebody had to say it. I'll leave you be.”

*

An open-age evening arts club. That’s what Deep Space Nine could really do with. It turned out that Irena was a delightful musician, and Susan a dab hand at watercolours. Robertson stuck with the creative writing (which Savannah dropped in on from time to time), and it turned out that many of the adults on the station had their own private thoughts that they had been itching to sing about, paint about, or put to paper, so to speak. Jake, delighted by the prospect, took the opportunity to drag every person he could get in a spare moment along with him, although tonight he had come along alone.

“Mx Robertson?” he asked, wandering over to where they were setting up for the night.

“Jake! Good to see you again.”

“Good to see you too! Dad sends his apologies - he’s kinda busy tonight, and I know I said I’d bring him along, but-”

“Jake, I saw Odo and Lieutenant Bond chasing that giant vole down the Promenade this afternoon, I think we can safely say I saw this coming. But thank you for telling me! Take a seat anywhere, we’re going to start in a minute.”

“Hey Robertson!” called Susan, “did you order a box of uh, junk from somewhere?”

“What?”

“This was sitting under your desk!”

Susan was holding up a battered looking metal container. Robertson hurried over.

“What’s in there?” they asked, peering in. Inside, there was a collection of fabrics - oddly shaped bits and pieces, with cutouts and frayed edges, all neatly rolled up and individually secured with a piece of yarn. Robertson fought off the urge to burst into tears on the spot.

“Just put them, ah-” they cleared their throat, “we’ll just put them back under there for now.”

“Julian!”

At Savannah’s delighted greeting, Robertson looked up to see the station’s doctor hovering awkwardly in the doorway, holding a PADD to his chest. Savannah took him by the hand and led him up the front.

“You’ve met Robertson before, right?” she said

“Yes, I ah - well, you were there, weren’t you?” said Julian

“Lovely to meet you under slightly less awkward circumstances, Doctor Bashir,” said Robertson, extending a hand, which Julian shook warmly, a smile blossoming on his face.

“Not so awkward now, you’ll be glad to know!” he said with a sheepish smile, "we had uh... a talk. Well actually, it was more of an argument... but at the same time it wasn't really, I can't quite explain what it was like, but it didn't feel like an angry argument, it was more sort of a. Well, you know." Julian paused, casting around for why he'd come here in the first place and then remembered his PADD and held it out.

“I’ve er - I’ve taken a bit of a crack at writing something in a more  _ Cardassian _ style. Something for Garak, you know? I want him to see that I’m - well, that I’m trying. It’s very short. Sort of a - well, sort of poetry, actually.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Doctor Bashir-”

“Would you read it? I just - I’d really like your opinion on it.”

Robertson blinked. Not that they were unused to that particular request, but given the circumstances… it looked like they all had some catching up to do on the Bashir/Garak situation.

“I would love to. We’ve got a few minutes before we start.”

*

It was beautiful. Affection and fondness shone through in every line. The Cardassian influence was clearly there, in the repetition and the attempts at subtlety, the deviations from personal sentiment. He had tried, clearly tried  _ so hard _ to avoid stating his thoughts outright. But clearly, no matter how he tried to disguise himself, the Doctor had poured his heart out onto the page, his meaning as transparent as it could ever be. He might as well have handed Garak a drawing of a love heart with both their initials inside it.

“What do you think?” said Julian excitedly after the workshop, huge green eyes wide and imploring.

"It's beautiful, Julian. Made me all teary."

Julian bounced on the balls of his feet, "do you think he'll like it?"

“I think,” said Robertson, “that he’s going to hate it-”

Julian’s breath seemed to leave him in one fell swoop. 

“- But the gift of an opportunity for disagreement is probably the best gift you could give to a Cardassian, hmm?” they finished with a smile, handing back the PADD and patting him on the back. Julian beamed.


End file.
